Colliding Clocks
by Cage The Elephant In The Room
Summary: We see things not as they are, but as we are. Our fondest memories never quite match up to how things truly unfold. They are as we felt at the time. Dreams, reality, memories. In the end, it's all the same tangled web of emotional dysfunction. A/A.
1. One

**First off, Inception doesn't belong to me. Second, I just wanted to say that I Love Inception; it was fantastic. And I just hope that you enjoy what I came up with. I tried to start off with Arthur more than Ariadne, because I just wanted to see if I could. Hope you like it!**

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**Colliding Clocks**

The plane was descending. They were five, ten minutes maybe, away from making contact with pavement. And as he watched her, watched her stare wordlessly out the window, he couldn't help but wish for a little more time. He knew better than she did that this plane, this airport, this city - it was as far as they were meant to go. And he was not prepared to break free from The Plan. He was not ready for anything more than a courteous nod and a polite goodbye. A salute to what they had accomplished together. Destroyed together.

_Emotional dysfunction_, he thought to himself.

She turned away from the window and stared forward. His eyes never wavered from her frame. She clutched at the armrests, clenching her teeth together in preparation. Flying never was her strong suit, no matter how much she tried to convince herself that she was alright. _Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Don't close your eyes. Focus. Remain calm._ Words, endless amounts of words, flew in and out. Fear, however, dominating her rationale as usual, remained an informal guest on the surface of her thoughts.

He picked up on these details, and stored the information away into his ever-growing mental filing cabinet. His head turned, ever so slightly, as he watched her beautiful face obliviously ignore his penetrating stare.

"Did you know that you're more likely to die in a car accident than in a plane crash?" He didn't know why he spoke up, but knew that he couldn't control himself any longer.

She turned towards him, just barely. "I did. Oddly enough, I'm not comforted by the statistics of fatalities caused by cars." Her grip tightened.

"Well, I guess I can't argue with that." His eyes locked on hers, and slowly, her fingers began to loosen. "Maybe we can eradicate your fear by finding the source. Why are you afraid?"

She shook her head adamantly. "I'm not."

"Really?" he asked her, daring her to stick to the false conviction.

The challenge went unnoticed by her as she finally shook her head. "Do you remember where you were on 9/11?"

He thought about the unusual question and shook his head as well. "No."

She half-smiled. "I didn't think so. I was in school, a freshman. It was first period and we were reading _To Kill a Mockingbird_. And for a moment," she was so wrapped up in her memory that he wasn't quite sure if she was still talking to him, "for a moment, I wanted to be anywhere else in the world. And then, the moment was over. People were dying. People were dying and I couldn't figure out why. Buildings were eradicated."

He was touched by her revelation. Some truth that he didn't have to expose, that he didn't have to steal. Offered on her own admission. It was more than he could have asked for.

"Anyway," she said, shooting him a false smile of reassurance, "I was _so _afraid of flying after that. I didn't even want to go to New York when my parents offered - " she cut herself off and shook her head. "I was and _am_. I guess it's just something I have to get over."

He nodded. "Is that when you decided to be an architect? To build something indestructible, beautiful." His eyes caught hers and he had to remind himself that this was where it ended.

She shook her head. "No. That was much earlier than that." She smiled at the thought, before gasping. "You've been distracting me this whole time!"

She was right. The plane had landed, safely and they were steadily rolling towards a future of just two strangers who just so happened to be on the same flight. Frowning, he nodded to her. But he couldn't help himself. He had to say it, "I would've liked to have heard the story."

Turning away from her, he swallowed uneasily. It was never hard to say goodbye. Until now, that is.

"I would've loved to tell you."

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**I could keep this as is. I didn't really write this with any straight-forward intention. However, I think I'm going to continue. I have the vaguest of vague ideas, so I think I'll try to write more. Thanks for clicking and reading! And...by the way...heh...reviews are very much appreciated! ^_^**


	2. Two

**Since I've already said my thank yous to those who reviewed, I'd now like to thank everyone who alerted and/or favorited. Very cool of you and I do hope that as we delve further into this fictional shindig that you feel comfortable enough to tell me what you think. Also, I'd like to mention that writing an Inception fic is extremely hard for me (mostly because we've got the weight of Nolan's genius hanging over our heads...) I don't want to mess it up, so if you truly think (at any point) that I'm dwindling, please, please, _please _tell me.**

**- If you liked the first chapter enough to think that a continuation is a bad idea, please do NOT read the following. Or anything else that pops up. I would hate to taint the opinion you had of it. Thank you!**

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**Colliding Clocks**

He stepped off the plane in false ease. Worked his way towards immigration in a robotic daze, only aware of his surroundings on an auto-pilot level. She was behind him, following him in almost the same manner. It was a different feeling for her, he knew. She had clocked enough time in her own dreams prior to the job, but it was different. She hadn't been shot at before. She hadn't gone three layers deep before. Then again, neither had he. But he had the preparation she didn't.

Reality told them that it had only been ten hours. Ten miserably long hours. Reality told them that everything that had happened was just a trick of the mind. The extremes they'd endured: zero gravity, a chaste kiss. None of it was real. And as he waited in line, passport in hand, just a few people ahead of her, he knew that reality was simply irrelevant.

It was a large enough airport. At least eight different immigration stations. He was up and as he briefly glanced over, so was she. He absentmindedly handed his passport and ticket over. Unlike the rest of them, he had another flight booked. Just a few hours away. It was something he'd always done. Deliberately putting time and distance between them to clear his head.

"Sir?" The woman helping him held out his passport, indicating that he needed to go.

He snapped out of the robotic daze and with a polite smile, headed out. She was now ahead of him, walking towards their future as strangers. He didn't like it much and whatever it was, he didn't want to let her leave. They hadn't had the proper discussion yet; whether it was a dream or reality, the point was that he had stepped over a line when he kissed her.

He rolled up his sleeve an inch or two to check his watch. He had two hours. Glancing up again, he felt torn between what he should do and what he wanted to do. She was fading away, however. Fading away into the crowd.

A curt nod to himself and he'd made his decision.

His stride was long in comparison to hers. Shorter than him, it made sense. He caught her arm easily. She froze instantly and he let go. She turned. He looked down at her small frame. He hadn't realized how small she really was. How impossibly tiny she was.

"I'm sorry?" she asked him, feigning confusion.

He was struck by the two words. She was already playing it off as if they were just strangers. Clearing his throat, he let it go. He was having trouble finding the words.

Worried, she nearly closed the gap between them by resting her hand on his forearm. She was concerned, he could tell by the look on her face. "Arthur?" she mumbled to him. "What is it?"

Still the silence reigned.

Until, finally, "I don't want you to go."

Her arm fell to her side. "What?"

Hesitating. He was hesitating to continue on. He knew better than most that when professional was replaced by personal, chaos ensued. "I want..." he trailed off. "I want to hear the story."

A grin. "Are you sure?" The implication was clear; it was more than just a story. It was so much more than asking to hear an outdated story.

He nodded. "Yes." His watch felt a little bit heavier on his wrist, as if the inanimate object knew better than he did that he was quite easily going to miss his flight.

He didn't care.

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There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many answers he wanted. It was an eager kind of desire; a simple desire that verged nearly on obsession. He simply wanted to know her truths, but he wanted them offered to him. He didn't want to just take them. His patience was frail as he waited for her to set her coffee mug down.

"How old were you?" he asked.

"Seven." She smiled shyly at him. "It was Christmas Eve and my parents wanted us - "

His head turned at 'us'. She had siblings, then. He stored the information away for another question.

" - to make these gingerbread houses, y'know. And I just went crazy." Her eyelids fluttered to a close, and she found herself swimming in old memories. "I made this elaborate, but God-awful structure. I don't think you could call it a house, really. But I loved that we were able to design something all our own. Something no one else had seen. That's just about the time that I decided that I wanted to construct for the rest of my life."

The intimacy of her shared memory made him feel like the luckiest guy in the room. "How many siblings do you have?"

She shifted uncomfortably, the question taking her off guard. She looked to the window, watching cars float by. Her hands cupped the mug a bit tighter as she shook her head. "Tell me something about you," she insisted.

He frowned. He had treaded into territory that she wasn't willing to share with him and it stung. "What do you want to know?" he asked smoothly, taking a sip of his own coffee.

She looked up without a smile, but with an earnest look in her eyes. "Everything."

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**So, there you go. For now. I'm not sure if I'll start off with this scene in the next chapter, unless you guys want me to. I'm not sure how many of you are going to enjoy the rest of this, but I do hope that you'll continue to read. I've only seen Inception once and that was a few days ago...it seems like all of the other Inception writers have seen it twice or more. So, if it just so happens that I start to veer off course, a part of it can be attributed to that. **

**Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated. :)**


	3. Three

**Once again, to those who reviewed (including my wonderful anonymous crew!): thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope you all enjoy this next update. It's a bit late, because I just travelled back from Japan. Sorry for the wait! Also, because I want to churn out the best work I can, I'm going to slow down these updates to about an update every three or four days. I'd love to update every day, but I want you guys to read something better than marginally good. Thank you for understanding!**

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**Colliding Clocks**

The old-fashioned diner they had stepped into seemed uncharacteristic at first, and yet, as their conversation unfolded the walls they were mutually (desperately) keeping up, it seemed more fitting than any other setting they could have chosen. Five star restaurants were typical of him; small cafes of her. Somehow, this diner was a change for the both of them. A good one.

The coffee was intriguingly delicious and tasted more like warmth than caffeine. They sipped casually and by their third refills, they were wired. The questions that stirred within them seemed to dance in anticipation as they waited to get them out. Answers and questions flew across the table in a furious stream. Strangers and acquaintances. They were caught somewhere in the middle. And it was hard to figure out where they stood.

In this real world, where nothing bended at their prompting, where nothing changed as they wanted things to...straddling the middle ground was as difficult as planting an idea into someone's mind. Entirely possible, but challenging nonetheless.

Arthur found himself intently listening to the stories she told. He found himself laughing at her misfortunes; found himself furious for her pain. These emotions he hadn't allowed himself to express were flickering back and forth in his eyes and deep down he knew this. And he couldn't lie to himself and say that it didn't bother him; it did. It disturbed him to realize that she could affect him this way. It scared him.

"Things changed a lot after Sam died. We couldn't bare to go into her room. We just didn't want to be reminded of her. She was - she was everything I ever wanted to be." Ariadne stared intently into her mug, emotions and memories and straight up pain tugging at her. "But then, she was also everything I never wanted to be, too."

Frowning, rather than subtlety, his follow-up question fell out of his mouth. "What do you mean?"

She half-smiled; not so sweet, but keen. "Sam was all about honesty and trust. Positivity. She practically radiated optimism. I admired her, y'know. But she was so...boxed in, if you know what I mean. She wasn't really about spontaneity. She liked structure and 'following your set path.' She didn't like change. And I wanted to see the world. I wanted to climb mountains and build bridges. Create. She just wanted to live in the suburbs and drive a volvo."

His curiosity only heightened as she continued to reveal her different shades to him. "Is that why you went to Paris?"

A nod. "I wanted to see the world. And after Sam died, I knew that I had to get out and _do _something with my life. I had to live for her, too," she told him intently. "Even if she didn't want anything more than the simple things, I like to think that she would have liked it. Not just Paris, but everything." She sat back against the cherry red booth, exhaling the tension that had built up within.

"I have a brother," he told her, an admission that he never expected himself to hand out. He didn't trail on, like she did, but left the sentence hanging. It was almost as if he wanted her to ask him the follow-up questions. He wanted her curiosity to really shine. He wanted her to want to know him, just as he wanted to know her.

Her head tilted against the window as she blinked back at him. "You don't get along with him, do you?"

He was taken aback by her almost accusation. "Why would you say that?"

"I didn't. I asked it."

A slight pause in his answer. "I haven't said anything to him in almost nine years."

"Why not?"

This time, no response at all.

She persisted. "What happened?"

"Our parents died when we were eighteen." The remorseful, sympathetic look fell upon her, but he quickly waved it off. "Don't. I got over it along time ago. Anyway, after they passed, we only had each other. It had sort of been like that for most of our lives anyway; we were your typical outcast twins. But that was okay, because we had each other."

"Why'd you stop talking?"

"It was our eighteenth birthday. Our parents knew we were going to the same school and they bought us a car. I thought it would be..." he had trouble settling on a word. "...nice to go for a drive, with everyone. I grabbed the keys, my parents jumped in the back. Will called shotgun."

She could feel the end of the tragedy coming before the words came.

He breathed in abruptly and looked down. "He hasn't exactly forgiven me."

"He can't possibly blame you for - "

"Would you?" he cut in, looking straight into her eyes for the truth. "_Could _you forgive me?"

She stumbled with her response, trying to be as honest as she possibly could. "I - I don't know."

He nodded, accepting the answer. "The thing is, I don't blame him. I've just learned to accept it."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked him, a simple question that verged on the most personal thing she had asked him yet.

He nodded again, a slow up and down gesture. "No."

"Can I ask you something about Cobb?" she blurted out after a beat of silence.

His dark eyes penetrated her own with an almost defeated look, before he briefly shrugged his shoulders, prompting her to continue with whatever it was she wanted to know. He had so many answers, but these he didn't want to give. Part of it was loyalty. Much of it was jealousy.

"Do you think that his memories of Mal, the way she is in his dreams...is it real?" The question didn't come out at all the way she intended it to; in fact, to her it sounded quite stupid. But he knew what she meant and he wanted to appease her gnawing curiosity.

He leaned forward on the table, and suddenly she was only too aware of his presence. "Ariadne," he began, her name tasting so intimate as it rolled off his tongue, "we never see things as they are, but as we are. Even our fondest memories never quite match up to how things truly unfold. They are as we felt at the time." He paused. "Dreams, reality, memories. In the end, it's all the same tangled web of dysfunction."

Her eyes flickered with disappointment. "That's a depressing way to look at it."

"We're as dysfunctional in reality as we are in our dreams. Our memories are lies; they're fraudulent. We take things for granted and we put people up on pedestals, places where they don't belong. They take over our dreams and they change our perception of everything that we think about."

"I wouldn't call it a web of dysfunction," she admitted, "so much as I would call it a...catharsis. Life is messy, Arthur. That includes all of it - dreams, reality, and our memories. It's all tangled, you're right about that. But, dysfunctional? I don't think so."

He sighed, almost comically. "You're more of an optimist than I pegged you for."

"Good thing or bad?" she asked, eyebrow raised in defense of herself.

"Neither." He finished his coffee as the natural light protruding in slowly died out. "But I like it."

The admission changed the atmosphere once more, but unlike the earlier beginning of their conversation, it didn't bring on an awkward silence. Instead, both colleagues, strangers, and potential lovers sat in a stilled acceptance of the unspoken truth. The most important of all the admitted ones.

There was an attraction budding between them. One that wouldn't be ignored. Acknowledgment was pending on both sides of the fence. It was only a matter of time. Time and a dysfunctional, tangled web.

Or was it a catharsis?

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**I look forward to updating again and I hope most of you are, too! Thank you for tuning in!**


	4. Tick

**12-13-10: I'm really bad when it comes to updates. Terrible. The worst. But I've always maintained that I write because I like it, not for the review toll or anything like that. It's important to me, now at least, to write quality (at least to the best of my ability) chapters, not just some words I churn out on a whim. I was overwhelmed by the responses I initially got and I didn't want to disappoint. I do hope that this chapter resonates with at least one person. Thank you for tuning in. **

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**Colliding Clocks**

He had missed his first flight. And the second. And the third. He missed each one he booked and eventually he had to admit that there was a reason why. A beautiful, intelligent, nearly irresistible reason. An infuriating, argumentative, childish yet wise reason. He had to admit that Ariadne was his reason for the delay. But he refrained from using the word _excuse_. Because she could never be that. It was a cop-out. A lie. She was much more than the cheap word.

She was rare. A _something_ that he hadn't been able to put his finger on. Surely a word had to exist, some word that described her in the way that he thought of her.

"Arthur?" Ariadne called his name in that inquisitive tone of hers, complimented with a dash of concern for good measure.

Arthur looked down to see her eyes, those eyes that always saw him and not the mask he wore far too often. It both relieved him and pained him to know that she could do this. He answered her with a quick 'Yes?' and waited for her to ask a question. Whether she realized it or not, he loved it when she did.

"Why haven't you left yet?"

He was struck. Maybe unconsciously he'd been waiting for her to ask the question, but it came as a surprise nonetheless. As was usual for him, he was slow to answer. She was patient and the silence that followed didn't weigh down as heavily as prior silences. They'd grown accustomed to them, even welcomed them.

He inhaled sharply and sat stiffly. The question made him as uncomfortable as the truth sheathed in fear nestled in his heart did. "Because I don't think I can."

Ariadne looked down to her hands, unsatisfied. "Arthur," she murmured. "That's not what you meant to say."

"Maybe I don't know what to say." Smooth words, vague answers. Typical.

She locked him in with a penetrating stare. "Or maybe you do."

The next silence was not a calm one. It was a storm on the horizon, ready to wreak havoc, but still holding back. With each second, Ariadne felt as if she would explode. She didn't expect much from Arthur. Everyday, she woke with the thought that he'd be gone. And she wouldn't know where. Wouldn't have any way of tracking him down. He would simply be gone, and his presence would fade. It had been three weeks and he hadn't lived up to her expectations. She was thankful, of course. But it was the agony of not knowing what was going on in his head that was killing her.

Arthur was the type that had always intrigued her. The guy that said all that he had to say in his actions, not in his words. That wasn't to say that he wasn't articulate or suave, because he most definitely was. But it was a quiet sophistication. It was alluring.

It was also annoying as hell.

"What would you like me to say, Ariadne?"

The way he said her name frustrated her. It wasn't patronizing, really. But there was an edge to it, as if she's intruded into the gated community of his head. Or his heart.

She sighed, arms down in resignation. "The _truth_, Arthur. I want to know what you're doing here, with me. I want to know why you haven't left. I want to know why you listen to me go on and on about gothic architecture without protest. But more than that, I _have_ to know. Please." The way she searched his eyes panicked him.

"I like you."

They were only three words, but they instantly melted the tension. The storm faded and clear skies settled in. There weren't any picturesque sunsets or rainbows quite yet - it wasn't that kind of declaration. But it was enough. It was actually more than enough.

She grinned slightly. "Really?" She wasn't ashamed to admit that there was something peculiarly girlish about the way she said this.

"Yes." He hesitated momentarily before going on. "I can't seem to get you out of my head."

She leaned forward, seeing that the very small declaration was difficult for Arthur. She wanted to leap up and hold him, but the action seemed likely to be more intimate than the chaste kiss they'd shared. Instead, she moved her hand across the table tentatively. If what he said was true, he was going to have to meet her halfway.

Boldly, she watched him stare at her fingers and asked, "And what if I said that I more than like you?"

The ball was in his court now. It was his move. She waited, her heart beating steadily though it seemed stuck in her stomach - anticipating his answer. Afraid, anxious.

Arthur moved his arm so that his hand was holding Ariadne's. He smiled genuinely and brought her hand to his lips. The gesture was monumental. Huge. They both knew this. She felt as if anything more would have to wait until the gentleman felt comfortable enough to let his guard down entirely. Until she was ready to do the same.

He brought her hand back down, still holding onto it gently. "I would have to say that I more than like you as well."

"So you aren't leaving, then." It was potentially dangerous to ask again, but she had to know how long _this _was going to last. She rephrased this time, not a question.

"I don't think I can, Ariadne. Because," he paused, squeezing her hand to reassure her, "I don't want to."

Behind them, the door that had led them to this diner weeks ago opened and the bell above the door rang as usual. In stepped a man in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. He was dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt. The smile he greeted the waitresses with confirmed his familiarity with the joint. He was a frequent patron. Upon seeing the man, though, Ariadne's eyes widened.

"Arthur," she began softly. "I don't know if you're ready for this yet, but..." She wasn't sure how to get the words out.

He wasn't sure what she was going to say. Was she talking about them? Something else entirely? He saw her frantic stare and was instantly alarmed. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Turn around," she told him.

He did as she instructed and although his reaction wasn't as obvious as her own, he was equally struck by the appearance of the man. The man in question seemed to feel the gaze and turned to look at Arthur. The recognition was instant, though neither moved to greet the other. It was something like a bad dream, a nightmare. Arthur briefly wished that it was a dream and almost felt for his totem. It wasn't and he didn't.

"Arthur?" Ariadne called his name, but he couldn't look away from the man.

Arthur figured that if he stayed seated, then he would leave. That's how it always worked with scenes like this. They always left. Always. It was the cardinal rule.

This time, his name was said again. But not as a question. As a statement.

It wasn't Ariadne.

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**I'm guessing there's a lot of you who know what's going on. I just didn't want to ruin it for those who may not. I'm sorry for the long overdue update. But I do hope that you enjoyed this. If not, I apologize. Thank you so much for tuning in, again. I really appreciate it. :)**

**-UT**


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